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"That’s why I need you there. To make him understand that this isn’t an insult. I want to make a commitment to her. This means something to me. It wasn't planned, but I'm going to do the right thing. I want him to understand that, even if he doesn't respect me for what I've done."

"From a business perspective, it’s not the worst move," Declan says thoughtfully. "Maksim is small-time compared to us, but his family has old ties still, even if he's not successfully using them for much. Tying his bloodline to my top man, bringing him into our orbit through marriage, elevates him. It gives him security he doesn't have right now, and he'll likely see it as an opportunity once he forgets the potential insult. But aside from the business…" He looks at me, and that smile grows, just a little. "I never thought I’d see the day you let yourself have a life, Cormac. I’m happy for you. Really."

I can feel myself relax another fraction. "Thank you, Declan."

"I'll set up a meeting early this afternoon. We'll get him to understand that this is all beneficial for him, and then you can go propose to his daughter properly."

For the first time since I walked into the penthouse, I feel like I can fully breathe. "Alright, then," I hear myself say. "Let's do it."

—

The Svenkov estate looks grand, but I can see some of the wear around the edges of it. There's a tension to the guards as they check our identification and let us in, and I hear murmurs as our car pulls away. Declan Murphy and his men here is a big deal. And I can tell Svenkov's men are worried about what it might mean for them.

Declan adjusts the cuffs of his jacket as we step out of the car. "Let me do the initial talking," he murmurs under his breath. "Keep that temper of yours locked down. If he yells, let him yell. He’s an old-school father whose pride is about to take a hit. He has the right to bark before he rolls over."

"I’m not here to fight him," I say, buttoning my suit jacket over my broad chest. It feels tight across my shoulders. I rarely dress up this much, and I'm as uncomfortable in it as Declan, but for this, a suit seemed appropriate. After all, it's either going to end in a wedding or my funeral.

We're shown to Maksim Svenkov’s private study at the rear of the mansion. The room smells of tobacco, with a hint of tea from the steaming cup on his desk that looks untouched. Maksim is standing behind a massive mahogany desk, his back to us, staring out of the French doors into the grey, overcast afternoon. When he turns around, I’m struck by how exhausted he looks. There are heavy, bruised shadows under his eyes; his skin has a sickly yellowish pallor, and his hairline is damp with a thin sheen of nervous sweat despite the room being decidedly chilly.

The man is under pressure, I think, reading his posture immediately. He looks like a captain whose ship is taking on water, struggling to keep it all afloat. I frown. Is it his daughter's absences that have him so worried? Is his business struggling that much? I'm not sure what has him looking as if he's on death's door, and that concerns me. I should know, as Declan's right hand. Trouble in the smaller families can work its way up to us, eventually.

"Declan Murphy," Maksim says, his voice thick, rough with years of heavy smoking. He doesn't offer a hand to shake, keeping both shoved in the pockets of his dark trousers. His gaze shifts to me, and I see a flicker of raw, panicked hostility flare behind his dark eyes before he forces his jaw to set. "To what do I owe the honor of the Irish leadership in my private home on a weekday afternoon?"

"Maksim," Declan says smoothly, taking one of the high-backed leather chairs without being invited. He gestures toward the seat beside him, and I sit down, resting my forearms on my knees and keeping my eyes locked on the Russian pakhan. "We’re here on a personal matter. One that concerns both of our families."

Maksim’s jaw tightens so hard I can hear his molars grind from across the room. He pulls a gold lighter from his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly as he tries to flick it, failing twice before catching the flame and lighting a partially smoked cigar. He takes a long, shaking drag, like a man facing his execution. I frown. This isn't the man I was expecting. Although he doesn't know our business here yet, so maybe the fury is still to come.

"Personal," Maksim repeats, his voice strained tight. "What business could you have with my family, Declan?"

"It’s not Declan’s business, Maksim," I say, cutting in with a steady, low voice. "It’s mine."

Maksim’s eyes snap to me. The man looks terrified, but beneath it is a fierce, desperate protectiveness that I recognize all too well.

He knows I've been with his daughter, I realize. He knows his twenty-year-old girl has been sleeping with a forty-year-old killer, and he thinks we’re here to dictate terms and grind his face in the dirt.

"I’ve been seeing Oksana," I state plainly and politely. "For the past two months."

Maksim doesn't explode. Instead, all the color completely drains from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse propped up in an expensive suit. He braces one trembling hand against the corner of his desk, the cigar forgotten in the other.

"Oksana," he whispers, the name catching in his dry throat. "She... you have been with Oksana."

"Yes."

There's a strange shift in his face. It's almost, if I didn't know better, as if he's remembered he's supposed to be angry, not afraid. His jaw clenches, and some of his color returns.

"She’s a child," he spits out, though the fury in his voice is undercut by a strange, hollow desperation. "She is twenty years old! She knows nothing of men like you! You come into my territory, and you take my youngest daughter like a common whore?"

This is more of what I expected, and it sparks a flash of anger in me, hearing him talk about her that way. I start to rise, the blood rushing hot to my temples, but Declan holds up a single, calm hand, keeping me in my seat with a silent, commanding look.

"Mind your tongue, Maksim," Declan says flatly. "Nobody is calling your daughter a whore. Cormac is here because he respects you, and because he respects her. If he wanted to disrespect your house, he wouldn't be sitting in your study. He’d be taking what he wanted and daring you to do something about it."

Maksim sinks heavily, deeper into his chair, looking suddenly twenty years older. He stubs the cigar out in a crystal ashtray with violent, erratic motions, his hands visibly shaking. He looks cornered, trapped between the Irish syndicate on one side and whatever internal decay is eating his own organization from the inside out.

"Why are you telling me this now?" Maksim asks, his voice barely above a rasp. He looks at me, his eyes dark with a mixture of hatred and profound fear. "Why come to me today?"

"Because she’s pregnant," I say quietly.

If he looked pale before, he looks completely gutted now. He sits entirely motionless, his mouth slightly open, staring at me as if the sky itself just collapsed onto his head. His breath comes in shallow, ragged hitches.